


Eye of the Storm

by aizawashouta



Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Internet Slander, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizawashouta/pseuds/aizawashouta
Summary: It’s rare for Ushijima — calm, composed, indomitable Ushijima — to come home in a mood sour enough to forego greeting Oikawa with a kiss on the forehead and a curious inquiry about his day, the earnestness of his interest still doing something funny to Oikawa’s heartstrings even after all these years.Sometimes, Oikawa will do better giving Ushijima space, letting him brood and work through the problem on his own to tell Oikawa about it later.Sometimes, Ushijima wants him close, but doesn’t quite know how to ask.Tonight, he has a feeling it’s going to be the latter.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664299
Comments: 34
Kudos: 334





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on my upcoming hanahaki fic for a while now and was in dire need of a break from the angst-fest — this is the result.
> 
> It was inspired by this [tweet](https://twitter.com/lunartsukki/status/1267152713613062145?s=21). 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! Don’t be shy about leaving me kudos and/or a comment if you do (and feel free to talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OlKAWAT00RU)) — it makes my day!

Oikawa can tell something is off the moment he hears the front door click shut with a little too much force, his ears picking up on the familiar sound of a pair of gym shoes dropping to the floor in their tiny genkan, followed by heavy footsteps that make a beeline down the hallway and straight for the bedroom.

Eyebrows knitting together with a growing sense of foreboding, he drums his neatly trimmed nails against the smooth surface of the dinner table — once, twice, before he slowly rises to his feet.

It’s rare for Ushijima — calm, composed, indomitable Ushijima — to come home in a mood sour enough to forego greeting Oikawa with a kiss on the forehead and a curious inquiry about his day, the earnestness of his interest still doing something funny to Oikawa’s heartstrings even after all these years.

Sometimes, Oikawa has figured out through a long series of trial and error, he will do better giving Ushijima space, letting him brood and work through the problem on his own to tell Oikawa about it later.

Sometimes, Ushijima wants him close, but doesn’t quite know how to ask.

Tonight, he has a feeling it’s going to be the latter.

He finds his partner perched on the edge of their spacious bed, posture slumped, the broad line of his shoulders rigid with pent-up tension, looking uncharacteristically small.

The sight of him has Oikawa’s fingers itching with the urge to flip him onto his stomach and dig into the hard, solid muscle of his back until Ushijima melts like wax in his hands; lies large and strong and quivering under Oikawa’s careful ministrations, under Oikawa’s body caging him in, forcing him to surrender.

Oikawa knows every inch of that smooth, sunkissed skin by heart, knows it like the back of his hand, knows _Ushijima,_ which is why he tells himself to hold his horses if only for a short while longer.

Soon.

Soon he will have Ushijima right where he wants him to be.

For now, however, this will have to do.

He takes a step closer, cautious, as not to startle Ushijima when he enters the room and sinks to his knees on the soft carpet, resting his forearms on Ushijima’s thighs, taking his massive hands into his own — more slender, more delicate, yet not any less powerful.

Ushijima lets him.

“What’s gotten into you?” Oikawa tries quietly, thumb caressing over Ushijima’s knuckles with gentle pressure. “Bad day at practice?”

As expected, Ushijima remains silent.

Oikawa watches his lips press into a thin line, but catches him leaning forward a little, only by a fraction, insignificant to the untrained eye.

To Oikawa, who cares (and cares _deeply_ , so much so that at times it still makes him feel vulnerable), who’s spent the better part of a decade learning the subtle signs of his stoic partner’s body language, it’s more than enough to confirm that Ushijima _wants_ to be bothered.

His sharp gaze falls on Ushijima’s phone, clasped tightly between his hands in his lap. It makes Oikawa wonder…

“Hey, can I see?” he asks, though he doesn’t care to wait for a response, deft fingers impatiently tugging on the edge of Ushijima’s phone case until it slips free from his iron grasp.

 _Stubborn as a mule,_ Oikawa thinks to himself with a fond eye roll when he blindly taps away at the screen — 0720, a passcode so predictable it almost makes Oikawa worry (or who knows, maybe he’s just conceited like that).

And there it is, the root of the issue; instagram still opened on the comment section under Ojiro Aran’s most recent post: a snapshot of himself with his arm casually thrown around Ushijima’s shoulders in a friendly hug, commemorating another victory on the international stage. 

(Oikawa spots himself there, too, blurred out in the background, talking to one of their coaches. 

Even though one wouldn’t be able to tell from the picture itself, he remembers how he had looked that day, hair in wild disarray and eyes glowing bright in the aftermath of five intense, drawn-out sets, of fighting tooth and nail to secure themselves the opportunity to stay on the court for another day, another match.)

Where Ojiro seems to be having a blast, grinning widely into the camera, the adrenaline of their victory still running high in his veins, Ushijima appears to be uncomfortable finding himself shoved into the limelight like this, painfully awkward to put it mildly. 

Like he’d rather be anywhere else.

 _Isn’t his smile a bit weird…_ one of the top comments reads.

_Yeah, no offense, but he looks kinda scary?_

_Something about this picture is putting me off and it’s not Ojiro-san…_

Before he knows it, Oikawa feels his lips twisting into a vicious snarl.

He’s no stranger to being at the receiving end of cruel jabs, or having his photos and comments meticulously dissected by any number of strangers online, loud and unforgiving in the way they tear into his flaws like vultures into their prey. At some point along the line he’s come to understand not to pay them any mind.

It doesn’t phase him now; hasn’t phased him in a long time.

And yet, seeing it directed at the man he loves gets under his skin, thick as it may have grown to such foolish slander, fast and with a staggering ferocity; makes his blood boil with a surge of white-hot rage.

“Wakatoshi…” Oikawa, says slowly. He squeezes his hand, more tightly now.

“Do you agree? Is that how you feel when I—”

Oikawa doesn’t let him finish, for Ushijima’s sake as much as for his own. His chest feels so tight, he finds it difficult to breathe.

“Hmm…” he murmurs pensively, reaching up to cup Ushijima’s face in his palms, fingertips rough and calloused from years of rigorous practice, tracing plush lips, still a little shiny with Ushijima’s lip balm where he’s trying to keep them from chapping during the winter months.

Ushijima leans into the touch, trustingly, without a hint of hesitance.

“I guess they aren’t wrong,” Tooru muses, only realizing his thoughtless mistake as Ushijima’s head snaps up to look at him, eyes full of hurt.

In his rush to explain what he meant, he pinches Ushijima’s cheeks; lightly pulls up the corners of his mouth despite Ushijima’s half-hearted resistance.

“Because _that_ is not your smile _,”_ he argues vehemently, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world (and in a way it is), vaguely gesturing towards Ushijima’s phone that he’d discarded on the mattress just a minute prior with a dismissive nod.

When Ushijima merely tilts his head to the side, confusion written all over his handsome features, Oikawa has to take a deep, controlled breath to keep his temper in check; remind himself to be patient.

Social situations have never been Ushijima’s forte and while Oikawa is sure that Ushijima is aware of this, at least to an extent, a certain (unfortunately quite charming) air of obliviousness surrounds him to this very day. There’s a reason why Ushijima tends to avoid social media at large and refuses their teammates’ persistent offers to help him set up his own accounts that he claims he wouldn’t know what to share on anyway.

(“Certainly no one would care to see pictures of our balcony garden through the seasons?”

“You could always post candids of _me_. It’d be a guaranteed success.”

“You are indeed very beautiful.”

“ _Dear God_ , you guys are so embarrassing.”)

Oikawa can’t think of a more sensitive way to break the news to Ushijima — that his authentic self isn’t the issue here, so he goes about it straightforwardly, in much the same manner Ushijima would if their roles were reversed.

“You’re _terrible_ at faking it. Look,” he elaborates while pulling out his own phone and practically shoving it in Ushijima’s face, unlocked to a photo they had taken at the shrine on New Year’s Day barely a couple of weeks ago.

The picture, currently plastered across his home screen, shows Oikawa just a moment after drawing his fortune, bottom lip stuck out in a childish pout as he’s glowering down at what he received — “a little luck”, how rude. 

Ushijima is hovering behind him, form huge and hulking, arms wrapped loosely around Oikawa’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder, lips curved into a quiet, private smile so full of deep, genuine affection, it has Oikawa swallowing back against the small lump growing in his throat even now that he has looked at the photo about a thousand times over.

“That’s—” Ushijima starts, but cuts himself short just as abruptly, nose wrinkling ever so slightly as he tries to find the right words to express his apparent disagreement.

It makes Oikawa want to flick him in the face. Makes him want to kiss him senseless.

“What?”

“You make it hard not to smile when you’re around. I don’t think about it. I don’t usually feel much like smiling…”

“Then don’t, unless you want to,” Oikawa laughs and finally pushes himself up on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against the wide expanse of Ushijima’s chest until he has him flat on his back, one knee on either side of his narrow hips, his face an inch away from Ushijima’s, who seems to be more than happy to indulge his whims.

“There’s something strangely satisfying about this, don’t you think? Depriving them of your smile? You know I’ve never been good at sharing anyway.”

At that, Ushijima lets his head drop back against the pillows with a stifled groan, his left hand dragging down his forehead and covering his eyes because Oikawa is being horrible and they both know Ushijima is helplessly, foolishly smitten even with Oikawa’s smug, most mischievous smirk chipping away at his sanity.

(Or maybe especially then.)

Oikawa doesn’t miss the way the corners of Ushijima’s mouth twitch upwards by a fraction — the beginning of a tentative smile that Oikawa will tickle out of him in due time, though not before kissing it, playfully nipping at Ushijima’s bottom lip.

“Get off of me you heathen,” Ushijima sputters against Oikawa’s insatiable mouth; gasps when Oikawa shamelessly jumps on the opportunity to bully his tongue in between soft, pliant lips and guide Ushijima through a string of wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave them both flushed and breathless, Oikawa’s hands feeling up Ushijima’s ripped stomach underneath his shirt.

It’s slow and deep, the way he licks into Ushijima with silent fervor, spurred on by every pant and sigh he draws from his throat. One of Ushijima’s legs wriggles free to wrap around Oikawa’s waist, heel digging into the small of his back, keeping him in place as if Oikawa was going to go anywhere.

The quiet rumble vibrating inside Ushijima’s chest makes his heart seize in the most pleasant of ways.

After Oikawa has finally exhausted himself, head resting in the crook of Ushijima’s neck (now covered in a hot mess of pretty purple bruises that will give Ushijima some explaining to do at morning practice) and fingers absently picking at a loose string on Ushijima’s collar, he peers up at his partner’s relaxed features. The deep frown has been smoothed from Ushijima’s brow, replaced by slightly parted lips and fluttering lashes.

 _He’s falling asleep,_ Oikawa realizes with a conflicting mix of disappointment and relief washing over him. Relief that he could be his source of comfort — the kind of comfort Ushijima brings him every day in a million little ways, consciously or not, sometimes simply by existing in the same space as Oikawa, calm and steady. The eye of Oikawa’s storm.

“Your smile,” he whispers against Ushijima’s jaw, littering his skin with a trail of featherlight kisses. “It’s nice…”

Wordlessly, Ushijima’s hand comes up behind him to rest at the nape of his neck, protectively; idly toys with a stray strand of silky brown hair until, eventually, his breathing evens out and his fingers go slack against Oikawa’s skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments!
> 
> Here’s my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OlKAWAT00RU), where you can yell at me about Ushioi and hq!!


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